


When He Came to the Merry Mill-Pin

by lirin



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: F/M, No Actual Character Death, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-21 01:09:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16566701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin/pseuds/lirin
Summary: There was no music when Christian awoke, and the only sound was of clashing swords in the hall below.





	When He Came to the Merry Mill-Pin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/gifts).



_"It happened peacefully," the woman murmured, and the music stopped._

_The pale white fingers were perfectly still on the keys, not a muscle betraying any reaction to the news that had just been thus delivered. Though news it scarcely was, for the lady's death had been a foregone conclusion for many hours now. Slowly, ever so slowly, Lymond removed his hands from the keyboard and clasped them in his lap. Kate Somerville did not look at his eyes. She did not think she could bear to see what might be glimpsed there. "Do you wish to bid her a final farewell?" she asked. The horsemen were pounding closer and closer; whoever they were, she did not think that Lymond had much time._

_Without a word, he brushed past her and into the bedroom beyond, where lay the deathbed of Christian Stewart. He knelt at the side of the bed; laid his hands on her face, brushed his lips against her brow, kissed her lips gently. He gazed long at her, mostly quiet but sometimes murmuring soft words. "The hawthorn blowëth swetest, of every kinnë tre," he whispered, clasping her hands in his own. Kate turned aside to give his grief some privacy, and that was when the music room door stove in._

_Lymond was at her side before she knew it, the door to the bedroom shut behind him. Christian Stewart was left alone for the moment—a peace interrupted briefly as Culter stormed past them and was informed of the circumstances—and then left alone again as all parties departed to the hall on the floor beneath, for a duel that Culter had used Christian's own name to induce his brother to fight._

_When they had gone, Kate reentered the room. She gently closed the girl's eyes: those eyes that saw no less now than they had before, over a mouth that would never again be kissed. She lifted the edge of the coverlet and pulled the blankets up to cover the girl's face. It was all she could do. Perhaps later, the girl would be buried here, but that was scarcely for her or Gideon to decide. She murmured a brief prayer for the girl's eternal rest, and left the bedside. She closed the door behind her, and for the last time, Christian Stewart was left alone._

 

Her side felt odd, as if it ought to ache badly, and yet did not. Her legs, too. The air was terribly close, and on further inspection, it seemed that there was a blanket over her face, tickling her nose and making it hard to breathe. Christian sat up, pushing the blanket aside. Wherever she was, she was alone, for she could not hear anyone breathing besides herself. She felt curiously light and almost giddy, as if something good had happened that she could not quite recall. The papers! She had delivered Harvey's confession to Francis. That was good. The best thing that could have happened, really. And then they had spoken at length, and Francis had played music to please the soul. And after—

She had thought she was dying, but she must not have. A dead woman would not breathe, would not feel the wood of the door solid against her fingertips. She found the handle and slipped through the door into the room beyond. She did not know this house, so she walked with all the care she could muster, listening for breath or movement of anyone else who might be in this place. How long had she been asleep? Where had everyone gone? What had happened to Francis?

There were sounds from below, of voices and of metal striking metal, but it was not the sound of battling armies. Christian set out to find the stairs, for there was nothing to be gained hidden away up here.

There was someone standing in the corridor: a woman, who screamed abruptly and as abruptly forced herself back into silence. "Oh, I...I wasn't expecting you." It was the lady of the house...Kate, Christian remembered vaguely. Everything that had happened before she slept seemed so long ago. How long had it been, since Francis had played dance music for her, and she had thought she was dying?

"How long was I asleep?" she asked.

"Asleep! We thought you were dead. I was certain...how is it that you are even walking, after that fall you took? I am terribly glad to see you on your feet, but it seems almost unbelievable..."

"I don't know what happened," Christian said, "but I feel well enough now. What has happened?"

"Nothing good," Kate replied. "Lord Culter is here."

Christian clasped her hands together and wrung them. "And Lymond?"

"They are dueling in the hall below," Kate told her. "I did not care to watch, so I am afraid I can tell you nothing of what has happened since they adjourned downstairs. But I think they are still fighting. You can hear the clashing of the blades once in a while, even at this distance."

"I must stop them," Christian said.

Kate seized her arm. "You mustn't—"

"I must." Shaking Kate's hand away, Christian pushed forward, one hand held against the wall and feet sliding against the floor for fear the boards would drop out from under her if the stairs were closer than she thought.

Behind her, Kate sighed. "The stairs are to your left, through this door. No, not there—" A hand slipped through Christian's arm and guided her gently a few steps to the right. A gentle draft blew on Christian's face as she drew near to the door. "Be careful on the stairs; there's a turn in the middle. When you reach the bottom, there is a door directly ahead of you. Go through the door and into the corridor, and turn to your right. If you run your hand along the left wall, the first doors you reach lead into the hall. You will find it easy enough to find, only be careful once you enter, for I know not what is happening. Unless—you wish me to accompany you—"

The offer was fairly given, but Christian could hear in her voice that Kate did not at all wish to go downstairs. "Thank you, but no." She stepped forward onto the stairs, running her hand against the cool stone wall. She felt light, with all the pain that had troubled her hours ago faded into nonexistence. But for all that, she felt not a touch of happiness, not while Francis Crawford was in such danger. Or already dead, a cruel voice in her head whispered, and she forced it to silence. He must not be. She would not allow it. She had little capability to convince or to control, but somehow, she must— She turned back to Kate. "You were startled when I walked up to you," she said. "Was it solely because my presence was unexpected?"

"Well, I—when last I saw you, you hadn't seemed to be breathing, and I could not feel your pulse. Coming up behind me, dressed all in white like that, I took you for a ghost at first. Though you have not the insubstantialness that a ghost would have, I think."

"I'm wearing white?" Christian asked.

"Your clothes were not fit...your injuries...well, I thought if you were to die, it might as well be in clean clothing. You are wearing my spare night shift. I should see if I can find something else for you to wear...a shawl might cover the worst of the tears and stains on your bodice, and I might have a petticoat that might suffice for the rest."

"Not now," Christian said. "Those below, Lord Culter and his men, you told them that I was dead?"

"Yes, and Lymond too. I am sorry now to have caused unnecessary pain; I truly believed you to be dead."

"Perhaps it will not all be for the worse," Christian said. She smiled. "They will take me for a ghost, just as you did, will they not? And thus, I have some advantage when I burst upon the scene. And some advantage is better than none." She turned away from Kate without another word, and followed the directions she had been given: down the stairs, out the door, and trace the wall until it becomes a door. This accomplished, Christian stopped and took a deep breath. The clash of swords was louder here, sometimes incessant and sometimes—

But she could not wait any longer. She realized suddenly that the door might have been locked, but before that fear had a chance to take hold, the handle was turning, and she hastened into the room.

She must look a sight, to all those who had eyes to see. Her hair a tangle, her garb scarcely appropriate to be out of bed in, much less in general company. Whether she startled them as her own self, thus interrupting a battle she had no right to impede, or was taken for a ghost, come from heaven or hell to inform them of their need to halt, she did not care. She only cared that Francis be given a chance to escape. No one here would hurt her, except by accident; and if she did take hurt, she did not care.

There were exclamations all around her, but she had ear only for the swords. Had they stopped fighting? She could hear no clash of metal or frantic footwork, but more than that she could not tell. She waved her hand towards the door through which she had come, though she did not know where he was or if he had any chance of reaching the door. "You must go," she said softly. "You must get away!" With quick steady stride, she stepped farther into the room, feeling certain that no one would strike at her, and hoping that her movement might clear him a path to the door. In front of her, she heard a rapid boot-step, and hoped it was Francis. Around them, the others had begun to move, but if he had a moment's head start—

She found herself seized about the waist suddenly. "It is I," whispered that silken voice that she would know anywhere, and she clung to him as he half-led, half-carried her across the hall. There was a sound of rushing feet, and she feared the others had now fully recovered from their startlement. Scarcely breaking stride, Francis leaned away for a moment, and then there came a crash of breaking glass from directly in front of them. He picked her up, one strong arm under her knees and the other still about her waist, and then they were flying through the air. The glass scratched at her arms and her legs as they passed, but she pressed her face tightly to Francis' shoulder and thus it escaped any damage.

Clinging to each other, they rolled down the soft grassy hill. Francis recovered first, disentangling himself and helping her quickly to her feet. "There was no time to ask you properly before, but it's not too late for you to stay without harm," he said hurriedly. "Will you come with me or no?"

There was only one possible answer to that, and she gave it.

He picked her up once more, murmuring apologies, but they both knew there was no time for him to lead her. He helped her onto a large horse, and having mounted another, set off quickly, leading her horse by the rein. He shouted loudly as they went, and for a few seconds they circled as he struck horses with something. They would not all run far, though, and even if every single horse had fled—of which Christian could not be certain—it could gain them no more than a quarter hour, she thought. She clung tight to the neck of her horse, and consented to let Francis lead her whither he would go.

"Acheson has escaped," he yelled after a few minutes, when they had left the house well behind. His voice was barely audible over the pounding of their horses' hooves and the rushing of the wind. "The messenger. We must stop him before he reaches Hexham. He's only a few minutes' headstart...if we can catch him..."

"We shall," Christian cried over the hooves and the wind and the beating of her own heart loud in her ears. She held tight to the horse, and followed Francis down the road.

 

From Christian's perspective, the assassination of the messenger was a rather confusing affair. They were on the open road, she knew not where, but it was less than an hour's hard gallop from the house they had left. All of a sudden, Francis pulled both of their horses to a halt, and lifted her off. "Wait here for me!" he exclaimed, handing her the reins of the horse. Then he was off again, hooves pounding into the distance, with no explanation to be had. Christian felt around her; she seemed to be at the side of the road, near a leafy copse. She pulled the horse back with her into such shelter as it afforded, and waited. In the distance, there were yells, and then the scream of a horse. The horse screamed again, and then there was another scream, that of a man, this time. It didn't sound like Francis. She was sure it hadn't sounded like Francis. Quite sure. Her hands grew slick with sweat, and the reins that she clung to nearly slipped. She cursed the blindness that kept her from going to his aid, but as it was, she would be more likely to be a hindrance. 

She heard hoofbeats returning after what seemed an eternity, but could have been no more than a few minutes. Two horses, she thought. Francis, or Acheson? Then the rider started whistling. "It was the Frogge on the wall, Humble-dum, Humble-dum."

"Shall I never hear the end of that song?" Christian asked, her face breaking involuntarily into the largest of smiles. "You never seem to finish it for me."

She heard him dismount, and then he was helping her up onto the horse. "Perhaps not," he said. "For the nonce, I would leave the Frogge and the Mouse in the bliss of true love."

"They're welcome to it," Christian said. "We've enough to go around."

"We must get off the road," Francis said. "My brother and his men are sure to be behind us, but we've enough of a lead that we can escape their notice." His voice drew closer. "I'll lead you on as short a rein as I can manage, as we'll no longer be on the road. But there's no longer need to gallop; it will be safe enough."

The trees grew tight around them, and branches lashed Christian's face intermittently. "Which of us is the Frogge?"

"I haven't yet decided," he said. "You'd make a fine Mouse, if you wished it. Is there truly enough, do you think?"

"Enough to do all that was needed," Christian said. "For they say that true love's kiss can heal a multitude of ills, do they not?"

His horse's stride faltered, and his voice drifted even closer. "People say many things. They say that the Philosopher's Stone can create gold from base matter. They say that this everlasting war may one day find a true peace. And yes, they say that true love's kiss can heal all ills. Can you believe it?"

She cast her arm out to the side where she heard his voice, feeling the air for him, and soon he took her hand in his. They were riding slowly now, and the branches were less plentiful. "I believe that true love can do many things," she said. "Though perhaps—it might be too much to believe that one single kiss can do all that one would wish. One would not want to depend overmuch on the healing power of that one kiss, but spread the effort out over many more kisses, would one not?" She turned to face him as best she could on the broad back of her stolen horse.

Francis' hand was tight in hers. "One might," he said.

She held out her other hand, and he took it. "One should," she said.

 

And thus it was that, in a secluded grove near the English border, true love's kiss was given full opportunity to work any healing arts it might so desire. And although Christian had thought herself already fully healed, she found that there was still more virtue of feeling remaining to her, of all that was good and wonderful. "Un nuevo amor un nuevo bien me ha dado," she said finally, feeling quite content.

And he capped her, as she was sure he would: "I’ benedico il loco e ’l tempo et l’ora che sí alto miraron gli occhi mei."


End file.
